


Ripped

by Gail Riordan (lferion)



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Age Difference, Challenge Response, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Zine, clothing-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-07
Updated: 2002-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/Gail%20Riordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clothing failure leads to ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ripped

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a lovely piece of art by Barbana, that appears to be no longer online. If I find it, I will link. Published in 'Beginnings 2' February 2004.

I knew it. I knew these bloody leggings were too old, too tight and past ready for the recycle. But I was in a hurry this morning, and put on the first pair that came to hand. And now I'm ages away from getting back to our quarters, and I can feel a breeze where no breeze should be. I feel like a newly-braided apprentice, not an almost-senior padawan.

Thank the gods of all stars for long tunics.

Of course, everything was fine through firstmeal, when I could have dashed back and changed. Even after morning group meditations I would have had a chance. But no, sliding into the last available seat in Master Perris' Cultural Studies seminar -- right in front, naturally -- I felt the first little 'pop' of expiring thread, and soon there was a cold spot on my backside. Nothing to do but concentrate on the lecture and not squirm.

Do you know how hard it is to sit completely still on one of those torture devices they call chairs in that class? I swear they mold the metal deliberately to fit no known species. And cold! But moving around would only make it worse.

Cultural Studies wasn't too bad, and I made sure I asked Master Perris a question right at the end, so I wasn't the first out the door, and could take my time getting up. Carefully. One timepart down. Too many to think about to go.

Moving did make it worse. I could feel more fabric dying as I breathed. Walking down the hall to Ethics of Negotiation I felt the other side go, ripping all the way over to the side and I am sure opening just like a mouth on my ass.

Oh, I really shouldn't have thought about that. Mouth. Qui-Gon's mouth, last night, in that very same place. Deep breaths. Calming breaths. They don't really help, you know, but at least I could walk again with something resembling normality.

Padded benches in that room, all in a circle. We're supposed to feel like we're really negotiating things, face to face. I succeed in getting a spot with my back to a wall. I never noticed before that the fabric on those benches had nap. It tickled. I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn't slippery, but it felt almost like fur, like Qui-Gon's beard, brushing at that terribly sensitive place just under the curve. I wish I could negotiate a truce with my body, but I really want to surrender. Not an option. A casual drape of my stola covered the bulge. Not much I could do about the blush.

The heat in my face subsided as class started; the heat in my ass did not, but I manage to keep my mind on the discussion, and even contribute a little. Bant looked over at me quizzically once or twice, but she was across from me, and far enough away that I didn't have to explain. I got out with a nod and a smile at her, and a promise to talk. _Later._ Another timepart down.

The first rip crept all the way to the inseam during Alien Lunch (there is some long, proper name like "Gastronomical Appreciation and Understanding: the Cuisine of the Republic and Affiliated Sectors," but it's been called alien lunch forever.) Today we were served jebbal beanfruit. Roundish, pinkish two- and three-lobed things in a thin white sauce. Never tell me the Force does not have a sense of humor. At least they tasted good.

As soon as I stood up, I knew the legging situation was hopeless. I could feel the rips going vertical. Horizontal was bad enough; vertical would _flap_. I restrained myself from reaching back to check. Instead I very carefully straightened my tunic and made my way with dignity out of the Commons. If Garen snickered I did not hear him.

Why didn't I grab my cloak this morning?

So now, *both* my cheeks are bare to the air, with this thin strip that has to be the "specially reinforced" seam working its way into my crack and rubbing against tender places. Why couldn't they have "specially reinforced" the seat and not the seam? The fringy edge of the fabric is sliding against my skin with every step.

It gets worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.

I have one-on-one sparring practice next. With my Master. Only he's called to say meet him in his study-cube, not at the sparring floor. I hope it just means a minor change in schedule, not that I've been broadcasting or worse, or that somebody decided to report my sartorial deficiencies. Either way, at least the study-cube is private, unlike the sparring floor. And maybe I can borrow his cloak for the walk back to our quarters.

He'd be right to ream me for carelessness. Flay me with the sharp edge of his tongue and wit for distraction. What if something like this happened on a mission? But what I really want is a little more physical than words. I want him to ream me with that lovely big cock of his, flay me with the heat of his touch. An unrepentant part of my mind wonders if there is anything in his desk that could be used for lube.

I've been in love with him forever, and we've been lovers for half a year now. I get hard at the thought of him under perfectly ordinary circumstances. This goes well beyond hard.

He's waiting for me. I pull myself together, take another deep breath, and open the door. My leggings rip a little further.

* * *

I look up as Obi-Wan enters, shuts the door carefully and stands very straight and still with his back to the door. He seems both focussed and oddly distracted at the same time. His shields are good, but there is a heat radiating from him that I have come to recognize. To recognize, and, when circumstances allow, return. My Padawan is thoroughly aroused. Not an unusual state in itself, but not common at this time of Fourth-day, after a morning of classes and the notorious hazards of a meal designed to acquaint Jedi with the vast array and peculiar preparations of things beings find to eat.

I take the opportunity to take a long look at Obi-Wan, heart and groin both tightening. He is very beautiful, and growing daily more so, both in his person and in the Force. He has come early into his adult form, and handles himself with remarkable maturity. It is an honor and pleasure to be his Master, and even more of a joy to be his friend and lover. His eyes are very bright, his tunics pulled down snug and showing the width of his shoulders to advantage. His normally restless hands are remarkably still against his thighs. My glance travels to the gap between the ends of his stola, and the odd drape of his leggings. The fabric at the knees is almost transparent. I shudder to think what the seat must be like.

Oh. That would explain much. Firmly, I take hold of my thoughts, but there is only so much I can do about the other reactions. Obi-Wan's posterior is one of my favorite things.

I glance up in time to see him blush. "Padawan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Are those the leggings I think they are?"

He blushes redder. "Yes, Master."

"And have they done what I think they have?" I make no effort at all to conceal my interest. My own leggings have become quite tight themselves. I stand and move around the desk, smiling.

Obi-Wan smiles back at me, brilliantly. "Yes, Master. I'm afraid so." He stands even straighter, if possible. He knows me very well. I can just imagine the smooth curve of his ass framed in torn fabric.

"I had best inspect the damage, don't you think?" My voice is almost a purr.

"Oh, yes. Please." He leans up for a brief kiss, and turns, one hand lifting away the skirt of his tunic, the other....

His other hand is adjusting the thread of seam that is left between his cheeks. I swallow hard. He can hear the disorder of my breath and allows himself a tiny wiggle. All that delectable firm flesh unexpectedly revealed in the tatters of his leggings.

Something very like a groan rumbles in my throat. With great care I shift his hand so he may lean against the desk, and begin to explore that lovely and beloved territory with my own hand.


End file.
